Women He Liked

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Women He Liked

Women he liked, did shovel-bearded Bob,

Old Farmer Hayward of the Heath, but he

Loved horses. He himself was like a cob,

And leather-coloured. Also he loved a tree.

For the life in them he loved most living things,

But a tree chiefly. All along the lane

He planted elms where now the stormcock sings

That travellers hear from the slow-climbing train.

Till then the track had never had a name

For all its thicket and the nightingales

That should have earned it. No one was to blame.

To name a thing beloved man sometimes fails.

Many years since, Bob Hayward died, and now

None passes there because the mist and the rain

Out of the elms have turned the lane to slough

And gloom, the name alone survives, Bob’s Lane.